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planning one hell of a safari. I found this big motherfucker there." He hauled out a gigantic bolt-action
rifle, inlaid with gold leaf, with fancy hunting scenes engraved in the metal. "It's in .577 T-Rex, which is
another way of saying 'You didn't need that shoulder.' It throws almost two ounces of bullet real fast. It's
meant to stop charging elephants. This sucker probably cost him twenty thousand bucks. He had over a
hundred rounds of ammo, too. What the hell he expected to shoot in West Virginia is anyone's guess."
They looked over the rifle and its exquisite workmanship. Frank said, "Dude must have had a small
peter," which drew smiles from Mike and Santee.
"I don't suppose we'll have much use for it," Santee said, shaking his head, "but it sure is something to
behold."
They discussed which guns to assign to various groups in the army and which to keep in reserve. It
wasn't much of a discussion because there weren't all that many guns and most of their army was still
unorganized and untrained.
Finally, Santee summed up. "Bottom line, here's what we can do. We can shoot up all our ammo. We
can also reload for most of the center-fire calibers we have. Only enough powder for twenty or thirty
thousand rounds of rifle, and maybe that much pistol. Sounds like a lot, but you'll have a lot of shooters,
and you can only do so much with dry-fire practice. Then we go to the local black powder, if we can get
it." Frank and Mike nodded, they had thought of that themselves. "We lucked out with primers, I found a
couple of cases of old ones in the back room at the hardware store, and they store pretty well. There are
about fifty thousand there, and lots more in basements and workshops all around town. A bunch of folks
around here reload; I'm trying to get all the spare equipment brought together so we can set up a
reloading workshop. Bullets we can make from lead if we have to. But once those primers run out, that's
it. Flintlocks, if we live that long." He looked disgusted. "I played with flintlocks once. They fired about
eight, maybe nine times out of ten. Not good enough. Not fucking good enough."
The others nodded soberly. He knew his report wasn't too encouraging, but they'd have to make do.
The alternative... well, there was none.
July 5, 1631
Eddie Cantrell was in the reloading shed, carefully pouring powder into brass rifle cases. It was a
tedious, fussy job. Santee had been with him most of the afternoon but had gone outside to talk to Mike
Stearns and Frank Jackson. The three were now standing in the shade outside the window, talking
loudly.
 Santee was hung over, like the rest of the city, but was nonetheless close to yelling. "No fucking way.
Uh-uh. Not me, Frank, not me. I'd shoot one of the stupid bastards, and then where would we be?"
"Come on, Santee. Those young recruits need to be trained by the folks who know what they're doing."
Santee looked tense and nervous, the opposite of his blithe confidence at the Battle of the Crapper,
where he hardly got to fire a shot. "Frank, I'm an old, crotchety bastard. I know it. I have no patience for
fools. I don't speak any German and I don't think my whorehouse Japanese will help. I'm an old relic.
Find some other stupid fucking idiot about twenty years younger than me. I'm going to go get me some
aspirin and then I'm going back to the reloading shed. Shoot me if you want. No." He turned and
stomped off.
Mike and Frank stood there, watching the receding Chief Weapons Scrounger. Frank shook his head.
"He's a relic, all right, and a curio too. Fits that damn gun license of his."
Mike was philosophical. "Some people will either work alone or not at all. You can't push a rope."
"Yeah, I suppose. He's happy and productive in a job the army needs doing. I guess it's better to just
leave him alone."
* * *
Ten minutes later Santee joined Eddie in the reloading shed. "Stupid fuckers still want me to be a drill
sergeant!" he said. "Can you imagine me teaching a bunch of stupid pissant kids? Shee-it. How are you
doing there?"
By now, Eddie knew Santee well enough to kid him, just a little. "Mr. Santee? You're teachingme .
Does that mean I'm not a stupid pissant?"
Santee barked laughter. "You can't be all that bright or you wouldn't be here. Humph. Now how much [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]